


Sachant.

by Auntarctica, Greekhoop



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Captive, Dialogue, Established Relationship, Flouncing Javert, M/M, Wall Sex, angst & ennui, carnal brawling, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auntarctica/pseuds/Auntarctica, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greekhoop/pseuds/Greekhoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the barricades, Valjean and Javert meet again. By then, it's almost too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sachant.

**Author's Note:**

> A morsel coauthored for a prompt on the Les Miserables Kink Meme on LJ. Anon said: "Don't get me wrong, I love les Amis just as much as the next girl, but. I just need some angsty delicious Javert/Valjean in my life. DELIVER, KINKMEME. I KNOW YOU CAN."

It seemed impossible, and yet when it happened Javert could muster little in the way of surprise. He had always know, deep down in the black sub-civilized reptilian part of his brain that when the end came, it would come like this. He was not a man meant to die by accident, or misadventure. He would never have submitted to such trivialities. Rather, let it be by the ancient and obscure forces of blood and fate, powers of indeterminate origin and uncertain end. 

Yes, that suited Javert much better. 

From the moment he had seen Valjean at the barricade, Javert’s mind had been in motion. It had gone ahead of him, scrolling through the cold and undignified pre-dawn hours, to the moment that he knew would come. The moment Valjean would take his life. 

He had tried out several different scenarios - Javert had not know that he was a man possessed of a vivid imagination until the subjects of his daydreams became the contents of his own skull – but he had not found one that sat right with him. There was always something missing, a disappointment that persisted even into the impenetrable darkness that lay beyond the end of his existence. 

By the time the end came, Javert was ready to go. He had nourished a hope of seeing at least some of these young upstarts receive the spankings they so roundly deserved, but by the time the barricade began preparations for the final assault, Javert was exhausted, sore, hungry. Mild hallucinations – pastel lights, the faint sounds of chimes – encroached upon him, side effects of a sleepless night. 

He had thought that all of this might soften the indignity of being led across the barricade like a dog on a leash, but in fact it did not. By the time they reached the low fortification on the Mondetour, Javert was fuming. He glared at Valjean’s back, willing a brick, a bullet, a bolt of lightning, a falling bit of extraterrestrial debris. Anything that would make a satisfying thud when it came down on Jean Valjean’s unexpecting white head. 

Valjean stopped before the wall and looked at him. “Climb over.” 

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Just do it.” Valjean grabbed his arm as if to haul him over the low barricade by force. There was no doubt in Javert’s mind that he could have done just that if he had wanted to. He still had a monstrous strength. 

But that hand on his arm sent a curious shock through him. It dredged up a memory that was neither pleasant to him nor unpleasant, but certainly not what he wanted right now. Feeling a grip of panic for the first time since this had begun, Javert shrugged off the invasive hand, gripped the top of the barricade the best he could with his wrists bound, and began to slither gracelessly over.

Javert’s uniform was mercilessly fitted, tailored close and carefully to a form still taut as the day he’d first become a gendarme. It served him well in cutting a fine and menacing figure; it did not lend itself well to action beyond intimidation, but neither did this unprepossessing citizen’s disguise. It certainly did not serve him now, scaling walls under duress.

Cursing softly beneath his breath he struggled to surmount the barricade, feeling the nature of the brick and mortar, as hard and unyielding as his own. It was ungainly with his hands bound, on his stomach like some ill-made serpent, and for a moment he felt a pang of real vertigo despite the modest height, a vision of himself tumbling forward uncontrollably onto his face with no way to brace himself or staunch his fall.

“Easy, Lucien,” said Valjean, behind him. “Easy now. We have time.”

His voice was low, temperate. Almost soothing. Merciful. Upon hearing his given name, Javert’s body commenced a visceral and involuntary shudder.

Javert was certain, now, that Valjean would kill him swiftly and at once on the other side of the barricade. Kill him, kill him; perhaps up against the wall. 

There was no need to rush to the destination, after all. Bullets went on swift wings and would more than make up for any lost time spent upon reconciling the state of Valjean’s menstruating heart.

“No, Lucien,” murmured Valjean, “not so fast. You’re liable to hurt yourself.”

All at once Javert felt the grasp of his massive hand at his collar and nape.

“…Here, let me –”

Valjean lofted him over the far side and carefully lowered him, one-armed, to Javert’s astonishment. It should not have surprised him, he well knew the man’s strength – and yet it was something else entirely to have it enacted upon one’s physicality. 

Javert grimaced into the silent blue dark of night.

No, it should not have surprised him.

It was nothing for Jean to scale the wall himself, to clamber effectively over, and now he released Javert, unhanded him into his own pitiful and tethered devices.

“Come,” said Valjean, his eyes rising, shadowed with what might have been...sorrow? “There’s a blind alley up ahead. Let us go there.”

Javert gathered himself, letting his head bow for a moment. For perhaps the first time in his life he felt empathy for the condemned, for the prisoner. His body ached in unaccounted places, his vigor was sapped from the deprivation and duration of his captivity; his humors unbalanced by rough treatment.

Now he was to meet his end in a forlorn cul-de-sac, unloved and likely unmourned, at the broad and brutish hand of his own prey.

“Ah Lucien,” said Valjean, in a voice of great regret, “but you are bound hand and foot! How could I be so inconsiderate?”

“Now you mock me,” uttered Javert, the words low and venomous, “and betray the lowborn thief, the miscreant who stole the mantle of a great man.”

Valjean’s eyes crimped slightly at the corners, as if he flinched.

“Ah Lucien…” he said, again, more resigned this time.

Javert stood, defensive, shoulders set and squared even in his exhaustion. His gaze was oblique and accusatory. He could feel the damp around his face and hair, soaked into collar and jabot. They had spared him no one’s water in their contemptuous defiling.

“…I shall carry you.”

Before he could so much as absorb the insensible words, Valjean had grasped him in those broad and brutish hands, and hoisted him unceremoniously over his shoulder.

Javert chased his breath as Valjean set off at a rapid gait across the uneven cobbles. Bound and helpless, he bounced like a sack of flour. Blood rushed to his abused face and he couldn’t tell if it was from gravity or shame.

They made several turns in rapid succession. Javert was so disoriented from the sleepless night, the precarious position, the nearness of Valjean’s body that he could no longer tell where they were, or even in which direction they were moving. Time felt wrong, elongated and askew, as if he moved now through a dream.

Once or twice, Javert thought about calling out. There would be patrols out in full force now that it was getting light, and someone might hear. They might come then, only to find him like this.

Javert kept his lips sewn tightly shut.

All at once, the walls of the alley folded back and admitted them into a small stone courtyard. The paving stones were old and cracked, the corners of the plaza did not square off exactly. It was a relic of an older city, perhaps a century old, perhaps more.

Valjean unshouldered him like a sack of grain, setting him down so gently that Javert hardly even felt a jolt. He had been placed on an outcropping of stone that jutted from the foundation of one of the houses at about the height of a park bench. Javert leaned his head back against the wall, and he felt that it was still cool from the night before. He rested there for a moment, feeling his breath move through his body, the throbbing of his own heart.

“I passed through this place last night,” Valjean said. “When I first came. I could hear voices, footsteps, but the streets are so close it was impossible to say from whence they came. Do you know, I was afraid…”

He did not wait for a reply. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and Javert’s eyes went warily to his hand, expecting it to draw forth a knife, or garrote, or some rude Medieval torture device.

But Valjean brought out nothing more sinister than a handkerchief: white, starched and unembroidered. He shook it out once, and then he turned his back on Javert. He went to the little fountain in the center of the square and dipped the handkerchief in the water, then he came back with the small wet bundle cradled in his hand.

“Did you think that I no longer felt fear, Lucien?”

Javert did not answer right away. He was otherwise engaged in trying to dodge the damp cloth that Valjean extended towards his face. He drew back from it as if it were a brand.

His breath came in a sharp gasp when Valjean at last managed to press the handkerchief against his cheek. He began to wash Javert’s face, cleaning away the debris of a night spent in captivity.

“What are you doing?” Javert said through gritted teeth, a jaw set like the jaw of a statue. “Kill me and have it over with. Torment me no longer…”

“Torment?” Valjean echoed. He said the word slowly, pronouncing each syllable with great care, as if it were the first time he had spoken them aloud. “Yes, we have tormented each other for too long, Lucien.”

One of his great hands came down on Javert’s shoulder. It happened very fast, faster than Javert’s dulled senses could react. He felt himself hauled to his feet, then turned. A mighty shove put his chest against the wall, and Javert felt once more the coldness of the bricks against his skin.

He was besieged once more by persistent memories. On a better day, he would have been able to banish them once more to the realms of the past, but today he had no choice but to submit. His weary and bruised mind bending beneath this new burden.

“Monsieur le Mayor…” he said. It was a name driven out of him as if by flails. He had not said it in a long time, but he had not forgotten the taste of it there on his lips. No, not even for an hour, not even for a moment.

“No,” said Valjean, letting his brow come to rest against Javert’s back, with a gravity that made the Inspector shiver. “No longer. Now I remain who I always have been, and only you know it so well as I.”

His fingers grasped and dragged across Javert’s chest as if he would rip away his very clothing, here in the ruined courtyard, heedless of prudence or propriety. Javert knew he very well could, knew it with a sapience that was so engrained as to have become nearly indigenous to his bones.

Valjean’s voice was heavy at his ear, coarsened and urgent. 

“What is this civilian drag? Broadcloth and brocade. You should have stayed in your uniform, Lucien. Safe in your wool and finely dressed leather.”

Soft notes of contempt beneath, but only for the circumstance. Beneath that, the same poignant regret.

“I know your name,” managed Javert, thickly, breathlessly. “You are the same man, regardless of the trappings. So it is for me.”

Valjean’s hand found the waist of his breeches and seized it, then tore it open, jerking the buttons from the placket with tender violence. Javert was vaguely aware of the sound of them scattering, pinging off the cobbled stone.

“And without them?” Valjean whispered, in a voice like honeyed grit. “What are we then, Lucien? Are we at last but men?”

Javert closed his eyes, crushing them shut against his words, his touch, the unthinkable implication. His hands clutched weakly at the rough wall.

“I will not beg for your mercy, Monsieur.”

“My mercy is given freely,” Valjean replied. “And with gladness.”

Javert lost track of Valjean’s hand then. It slipped away from his shoulder, and Javert knew that he could have struggled, could even have turned the situation in his favor. But to what ends? It was more than the ropes around his wrists that held him now, more than duty that bound him inextricably to this man.

He heard the soft sound of clothing being displaced. He was mortified to realize that he remembered them so well he could map Valjean’s movements by the noises they made. The subtle pops as he opened the buttons on the front of his breeches, the whisper as he splayed open the fabric and freed his cock.

Javert felt Valjean’s hand on his hip, pushing cumbersome clothing aside. His palms were so rough from a lifetime of labor that they no longer felt like skin at all. They had become like the bark of a tree that grows in some wild and inhospitable place.

Valjean pressed up against his back, and Javert trembled at the weight of his cock against the inside of his thigh. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again right away. Valjean’s hand moved up under the sweep of his hair, cradling his head.

He swayed forward. Javert caught his breath, expecting pain, but in truth it did not hurt at all. It was as if his body remembered all that he had longed to forget.

Valjean pushed his hips forward. In a single fluid stroke, he was within.

Javert heard himself make a noise that he had never heard before. It was wanton, animal – less issuing from his lips than bolting past them unbidden. He was pinned mercilessly to the wall, impaled by Valjean’s big cock; a specimen, a butterfly on linen. A high flush rose in his cheeks at the horror of his predicament, at the notion of being caught here in this forgotten cul-de-sac, rutted like an animal, taken by an anonymous brute.

Javert felt himself stiffen, the ache in his loins going from a sharp pang to a dull roar.

Against his ear, Valjean groaned, low and rough, his weight across Javert’s back like a cross.

“Ah, Inspector, I told you I could be merciful. You feel it now, don’t you. My mercy fills you. Tell me how it fills you, tell me how you like it.” 

Valjean did not hesitate once he’d pushed inside Javert, but drew back and thrust in once more, right up to the hilt. Javert’s fingers clutched weakly at cold stone and his thighs shook. 

He wondered if he was actually supporting his own weight at all, or if it was merely Jean’s cock that buoyed him, upthrust and unyielding. It felt impossibly large to him, as it always had.

Another guttural sound slipped from him, equally inhuman. He could only listen in amazement.

“Maitre,” he managed to rasp out, already breathless and rendered more so by each stroke, which Valjean committed with the tenderest violence. “Please. I cannot stand it. How can you be so kind?”

“Alas, Lucien.” Valjean’s mouth up against his ear, his voice like a slap, like a torrent of rain. Javert’s head rang with it as if he had been suddenly plunged into deep water. “Even now you do not understand…”

Javert’s throat seized shut against the sound that had begun deep inside him, threatening to erupt from between his lips. He bit it back, but his entire body shook with the effort. Valjean, as near as he was, must have felt it. 

Let him take it for laughter, Javert prayed. If that is the only clemency I ever know…

He did not have time to finish the thought. His body moved of its own accord; his hips arching forward, bending back, but inextricably trapped between the two immovable weights of the brick wall and Valjean’s bulk, like a witch in the Inquisitor’s press. His bound hands worked mindlessly against the ropes that held them, but he could find nothing to take hold of, nothing secure by which to orient himself.

Javert pushed back against Valjean’s body, meeting his thrusts, making it easier to take him. Yes, to surrender at last, to a worthy adversary.

Each stroke of Valjean’s cock drew small moaning noises from him. They were not words, nor even attempts at them. He knew that he did not need to speak, for Valjean always seemed to understand him all too well.

Valjean’s teeth closed around his ear, a sudden exquisite pain. “I shall save even you, Lucien.”

 

Javert cried out, and knew it was all over.

His head flung back over Valjean’s hard, heaving shoulder, baring his throat to a god who did not exist, who did not hover above them, who did not care about the petty lives of men and their casual anguish.

He could not help but wonder why it should be those chaste words that flung him headlong toward climax, when perfectly profligate ones had been cast against his ear in a low and lustful breath time and time again by this man. 

Valjean wielded his kindnesses with the weight of a truncheon.

Even now his hushed, urgent voice landed in the soft loam of Javert’s mind like a lead-footed finch. His strong hands grasped at Javert’s chest, grasping and reforming, his cock surging high and hard inside Javert’s willing and wanton vessel.

“Yes, Lucien, you wanted me once when you did not know me, but you have always known my name. Say it. I need to hear it from your lips. You lips alone.”

Valjean’s thrusts slowed and became unbearably deep.

Javert felt his lips fall open, and a groan fell from them in turn.

“…Who am I, Lucien. Who am I?”

His tone was guttural, a pleading from the primal depths.

In that moment, Lucien Javert was broken. He could make no reply. The words he wanted to say choked in his throat and evaporated off his tongue as if they had no more substance than spun sugar.

Valjean waited a long time. Javert could feel the thick throbbing of his pulse winding down, could feel his cock growing soft inside of him. At last, with a quiet sigh, he pulled away. Javert quivered, and managed only with some effort, to stay on his feet. He submitted without complaint as Valjean tenderly wiped them clean with his handkerchief, set their clothing in order, and then, after all other delays had been exhausted, cut the ropes around Javert’s wrists and ankles.

“You ought to go, Lucien,” he said. “Things will get very bad soon, I fear.”

Javert turned to face him, keeping his back against the wall. He felt no pain at all, not yet, but it seemed to him very likely that it would come soon. “Where are you going?”

“Back to my duties,” Valjean said. “There is still one thing I have to do.”

As if the simple act of saying the words had decided him, Valjean turned on his bootheels and marched off towards the barricade. Javert did not try to follow him, or call him back. He could not think of a single thing which he ought to have done or wanted to do at that moment.

In a moment, Valjean was gone, and he was alone.

 

FIN.


End file.
